


plenty of fish in the wrong sea

by Vulpix



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, alternate history au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpix/pseuds/Vulpix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick can't believe these Fall Out Boy guys actually got famous out of his old Chicago music scene. He also can't believe that the emo one wearing too much eyeliner that his little sister is in love with seems to be in love with him. </p><p>(or Patrick never joined Fall Out Boy and is a music snob and Pete is still Pete.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	plenty of fish in the wrong sea

**Author's Note:**

> this is one of those ideas I had late at night when my brain was far too exhausted to think straight. it's been sitting without attention for a while, so I figured, why not post it?

Patrick quickly determined the shittiest thing about doing crew at a venue was the fact he got to see a bunch of bands who didn't deserve the spotlight get it. Ah, the woes of an ex musician.

That's exactly how he met Pete Wentz for the first time. He had remembered his sister squealing about the emo haired, in her own words, “beauty”. Frankly, when they walked into the venue- they as in the rest of the band and this Wentz guy- Patrick had to hold back a snort.

They were a typical boy band. The Fall Out Boys or something. He had heard them once on the radio, shrieking vocals and a screamer that he immediately pegged to be this Pete guy. Along with Pete, who was far shorter than the posters on his sister's wall depicted him, were three gentlemen that didn't exactly fit with Pete. They were apart of the same puzzle, sure, but the pieces were quite obviously jammed together. There was one covered in tattoos, another with a wild mess of hair, and the third had the air of, “I don't care,” to him. Patrick just continued fixing up their rig, deciding he didn't like Fall Down Boy.

It wasn't rare for the artists and him to talk. That's how he had gotten Travis Barker's autograph, and the promise of a job if there was an opening from the guys in Taking Back Sunday. He still was surprised when he heard a hello, and his eyes looked up to see that Pete Wentz dude watching him intently.

Patrick blinked a few times, glancing behind himself to see if there was someone more important in the area, looking back to an amused facial expression.

“Yeah, you, lighting boy.”

Oh he had just ruined every chance at a decent conversation. _Lighting_ _boy?_  So Patrick was only twenty and the youngest of the employees. That did not mean he was _“lighting boy”._

Instead of acknowledging that, he went back down to his work, his hands quick, praying this guy would get the hint and get the fuck away. He didn't.

“C'mon, man, I just need to find the green room,” It was a whine he wasn't expecting, and he looked up with a brow raised. They exchanged a long glance, and then Patrick sighed, getting up from his work.

“Next time I'll leave a trail of breadcrumbs,” He said with a shrug, starting to head for the green room. That made Pete grin a brilliant smile, and Patrick saw why the girls swooned. Not that he had any sort of warmth filling his stomach.

That escort would be the only time Patrick spoke to him that time around. It was mostly small jabs shared between them, and he motioned toward the room. Patrick went back to the rig, then lurked back stage until he could go home.

Patrick would just watch as Pete leaned down, whispering into the ear of a girl who was probably younger than even Patrick was. He'd watch the hand snake down to her ass, and he felt disgusted. It was even worse when he realized that this was _the_ Pete Wentz from the Chicago scene he had loved so much three years prior. That made bile raise in his throat, and he had to go back to the panels before he stomped over and asked them to break it up.

It would be another few months before Fallen Boys ended up in Chicago again, and since apparently the band was born and raised Chicagoian and this was the first date, they were there quick, messing around in the GA pit while Patrick helped set the stage up. He couldn't help but eavesdrop as the group played wiffle ball, eyes focused on the amps he was moving and the spots they had to be.

“Being straight edge is stupid, you fuck heads.” He determined that was the lead singer, Ed something-or-other. Definition of a skuzzball. He had managed to find his way onto all of the local tabloids, even more than Pete. Which was saying something.

“It's not stupid, it's their choice.” Trohman. He had actually spoken to him a few times back when he was young enough to be considered a minor, and he was in a half way decent band. He supposed that Flying Out Boy had made enough money to sell him out. A shame.

“Besides, I'd rather not be soaked in alcohol like you are,” That was totally Pete. He didn't even have to glance up to see if he was right.

“Whatever,” Ed mumbled, dragging himself onto the stage and storming past Patrick. He really would have stopped him if he had known where he was going and what it would mean.

A mere couple hours would past, and their sound check would actually start, and people would wonder where exactly the vocalist was. After twenty minutes of no show, his boss looked directly to Patrick, and he squirmed. It didn't help Pete couldn't sing, Joe wouldn't sing, and Tattoo-man (apparently his name was Andy, not that Patrick googled it,) was behind a kit.

It wasn't a rare occurrence for Patrick to help with sound checks. He had a heavy musical background, and a range that held most other's ranges, but he felt uncomfortable the way Wentz perked up when his boss offered him up for sacrifice.

“Do you know any of our music?” He seemed like a happy puppy. All he'd needed was a tail to wag and ears that perked up. So Patrick was exceedingly happy to say no and watch the metaphorical tail droop.

Joe started listing some of the bands they could cover, and Patrick felt his brows raising. Okay, so these guys weren't exactly musical geniuses, but they had a taste he could work with. After arguing over the best Michael Jackson and Green Day albums, Patrick saw his bosses “hurry-the-fuck-up-we-have-other-bands-to-soundcheck,” face, and he hesitantly walked up to the mic, biting his lip, glancing to a band that he had never sung with before. They had agreed on Beat It. They didn't exactly _need_ two guitars for that, and it had a decent lead in for Patrick.

He let it go the second his mouth opened to sing and just focused on the lyrics and the notes.

After a minute and a half, he got the thumbs up from the stage manager, and he pulled away from the mic, seeing the bewildered facial expressions of the band around him.

Pete had this grin that triumphed the smile he had gotten months before. It was like the entire sun decided to inject it's brightness into that one expression. “Shit, man!” He said, unable to wipe the grin off his face. Patrick found it contagious, and he smiled a bit.

The vocalist- Ed, that what his name was- found himself back an hour before doors opened. He reeked of booze and sex, and Patrick laughed under his breath at the bullshit excuse he spat. He heard someone clear their throat, and his eyes met Joe's. He was about to apologize profusely, until he saw the guitarist with a playful glint in his eye, and a smirk tugging at his lips.

He determined then, while it was sad to be a part of a band called Fell Down Boy, it was even sadder to be the most pathetic, laughed at by your own band mates member in a band called Fell Down Boy.

The show that night was sloppy, but Patrick paid special attention. He noted that they weren't actually that bad. Sure, Ed was stumbling around like a fool, and slurring his words til they were practically inconceivable at points, but Pete, Andy and Joe had it down. They had energy, passion. Pete ran across the stage, thumping into Joe and Joe returned the favor. Neither of their fingers deviated from the progressions they had to play. As for Andy, well, Patrick knew drummers, and he knew a good one when he saw one. It was a shame.

After the show, his boss sent him to bring some shit the band requested- fucking _peach sparkling water_ \- and froze as he walked into the green room. He didn't recognize the man sitting, but he did know the back of Pete's head. He did know the hands that were pinning the man's hips to the couch. He did know the lips that stretched around the guy's dick. Pete's eyes were shut, head bobbing. The other guy had his head tilted back, completely blissed out.

Patrick, after being frozen for a minute, and after his pants became a bit tighter, slowly stepped back, walking out of the room and trying to get that mental image out of his head. So Pete Wentz was into guys. Was that all that shocking?

Patrick wouldn't admit that the picture was seared into his brain, and he definitely wouldn't admit that he thought of it when he wrapped his hand around himself that night. It was just scarring, is all.

The next morning, Patrick looked up the next time they'd be in town. Good. Several months. Enough to realize that the attraction was just the fact he hadn't gotten any in absolute ages. It was just a little surprising to see Pete a lot sooner than he expected and wanted.

Patrick had done open mics for years. He liked it, the intimacy, the need to win people over. He had become sort of a regular at a place that had the best cinnamon buns and coffee, and often played a little longer than everyone else. He was only on his second song when he saw a familiar shock of black hair and tanned skin. His voice cracked on the chorus, in complete shock, but he quickly focused back in on it, deciding he wouldn't look at Pete Wentz and the fact that he was in his favorite local cafe _watching Patrick_.

He sang a few originals and a few covers, thanking everyone with a smile in between songs. He wanted to show off to this shitty bassist of this shitty band that there _was_ actual talent in Chicago's music scene.

It wasn't that he thought Pete wasn't talented. He had seen lyrics plastered across his sister's wall that said the things he couldn't put into words. He was a pretty good bassist too- not legendary like the people Patrick looked up to, but he could hold the rhythm pretty well.

Joe and Andy were pretty talented too. It was just that damn vocalist and the music they produced. Pandering.

Patrick thanked everyone with a massive smile, getting up from the stool, and walking off stage, bending down to put his guitar away. His eyes sneakily glanced at the spot Pete had been in, and tried to pretend his heart didn't fall when he was no longer there.

“Looking for someone?”

Patrick shot up, nearly bumping into Pete who had a massive grin on his lips. He was still unsure if he wanted to kiss those lips or punch them, but then he thought of the image from a few weeks prior and he just wanted to vomit.

“I'm sorry, it's just not often that we get pop stars in our meager cafe,” Patrick murmured, suddenly very ticked off. He placed his pick in between his teeth as he zipped up his case. He spoke with a tight jaw, glad the pick was giving him an excuse to. “Aren't you supposed to be on tour or something?” _Or sucking someone off._

He noticed Brendon eyeing them both. Brendon was the maker of the aforementioned glorious cinnamon buns, and one of Patrick's favorite people. Someone he could actually consider a friend, and a guy with a great music taste. He probably wondered why in the world Patrick was having a conversation with Pete Wentz. Pat really couldn't remember why, now that he thought about it.

“Hey, I love Chicago. A friend of mine said I should check this place out because it has a lot of talent. He was right. And we have a few weeks off. We're writing for our new album.” He noticed Pete's expression drop only slightly, but then he was grinning again. “He wasn't lying.”

Patrick walked to Brendon, getting his usual post-performance cinnamon bun and tea. “Get one for the guy with the eyeliner, too.” That gained an even more bewildered expression, especially when Patrick realized Pete had followed after him. He turned around, almost glad Brendon was in earshot, because he couldn't stop thinking of leaning in and muttering something sexual, or calling him out on it, or just, absolutely anything that was far too stupid. “You know there are other people who are performing. I don't know who that friend of yours is, but I'm sure he meant more than me.”

“Mikey Way,” Ah yes, Mikey. He wasn't sure if he was surprised or it was just as he expected, “...and I just find this extremely coincidental. It's not every day I run into people who kick ass that I kinda know.” Pete said, glancing over at Brendon. B seemed to be pretending not to listen. Patrick knew better.

“I've done crew for your band a few times,” Three, not that anyone was counting, “and helped with a sound check. That's hardly knowing.” He took a sip of the tea that Brendon placed next to him, trying to ignore his desperate attempts to give him looks that said, _“What?”_

“C'mon,” He felt Pete nudge him lightly, “I really like your stuff. And you know you liked the sound check. We sounded fucking rad.”

He wanted to bark out, “ _Are you for real?”_ but he didn't, because that would be lying. Yes, they had lacked one guitar, yes, Patrick's voice cracked on the higher notes, yes, it was awkward at first and yes, it was their warm up to make sure levels were good, but he did like it.

Pete nudged him again. “Seeeeeee! You know it’s true.”

“I like sound checking with all the bands.” Patrick turned away, giving him his side as William got on stage. He clapped, his arms folding over afterward. “I'm not all that swoony over The Fell Down Boys.”

He heard Brendon start giggling, and Pete joined him. “The Fell Down Boys, really Patrick?” He glared back at Brendon, who couldn't stop the grin that was spreading over his lips. “Fall Out Boy.”

Patrick raised his brows. “Brendon, I didn't know you were into over produced pop music.”

“Aww, quit being a music snob.” He reached out, shoving Patrick's shoulder lightly. “You're better than that, man.”

He was suddenly aware that Pete was curiously watching this exchange, and he got a little uncomfortable, turning back to listen to Beckett play. “Did you pay Brendon off or something?”

Patrick crossed his arms again, and Pete just chuckled. “Listen. I'd love to sit here and watch you pout at the fact your friend is totally on my side because it's absolutely adorable,” Patrick nearly turned around and screamed at him, but he didn't want to be disrespectful to the performance, “but I have some things I need to overproduce for the Fell Down Boys.” He snickered like a child. It was both adorable and infuriating. “I'll see you around. Thanks for the cinnamon bun.” And with that, Pete Wentz walked out of the little cafe Patrick thought he knew. He visibly relaxed once he was out the door. Then, his angry eyes turned on Brendon.

“What the hell was that?”

Brendon giggled like a fool. “You're kidding me, Patrick. Pete Wentz. You have a thing for Pete Wentz and he has a thing for you.”

Patrick nearly choked on his tea. “Excuse me?”

“Quit acting like it isn't obvious.” Brendon slipped away to tend to another patron, and Patrick just snorted. He didn't have a thing for Pete Wentz, and Pete Wentz didn't have a thing for him. Pete was quite obviously into casual encounters, and Patrick was quite obviously not. He tried to keep that mantra in his head as he found a number scrawled across his napkin, along with a winky face that was sticking its tongue out.

He hid that from Brendon, stuffing it in his pocket and forgetting about it until he got home that night. He had the full intention to rip it up, burn it, and then throw the ashes into the ocean for some poetic sense. Of course, he couldn't burn it in his apartment, and Chicago was landlocked, so he just settled for ripping it up and tossed it in the garbage.

But that, of course, was after adding it to his phone, carefully naming the contact, “Asshole” so none of his friends questioned the fact he had Pete Wentz in his cellphone.

It took him a few days of debating for him to actually call the number up. He didn't like Pete Wentz. He didn't like Pete Wentz. He was just calling to ask him why exactly there was a number on his napkin.

After four rings, he heard a groggy voice. “Hm, yeah, Wentz speaking.” He seemed like he had just woken up. Patrick looked at the clock. 1 PM?

“I'm just wondering why this number was on my napkin.”

He could hear some shuffling, and suddenly Pete's voice was a lot more cheery, “I fuckin' knew you'd call!” He could actually hear the grin in his voice. “Hi Pat-rick.”

Patrick wasn't sure what to say. He had gotten as far as the way he'd say hello- which clearly wasn't saying hello- and now he was silent.

Pete didn't have a problem with that. “You know, you're a really ace musician. I mean, I knew you were good when you were singing, but I didn't know you were that good.”  
“Um, thank you.” Alright, so Pete had a more than decent music taste. He tried to make sure that didn't go to his head.

He heard a sigh, and the sound of more shuffling. “You're an awkward flirt.”

Patrick could feel the anger boiling in his blood, and he was about to go off on Pete, but he was smart for once and cut him off, “It's kinda cute.”

The array of expletives and _“Who do you think you are?”_ s got stuck in Patrick's throat, his mouth wide open. He was really glad Pete couldn't see him. He could feel the red on his cheeks. Instead, he managed a rather clam, “What the hell are you?”

He didn't even miss a beat, “Your next first date.”

Patrick again was dumbfounded, but then he remembered all he had heard from his sister about this guy's dating life. His fist clenched. He had probably said that same line to the dozen or so girls he dated for a hot minute. He hadn't seen any mention of guys- not that he looked into Pete's dating history- so Patrick would just become some stupid fad for Pete. Another fucking headline.

“I don't think so,” he said, leaning back, resting his head against the back of his chair.

“Oh.” Pete sounded completely deflated. There was a few moments of silence. “Listen, Patrick, I have someone on the other line and I think I have to take it but... I'll call you later.”

He never did.

 

Brendon had an insentient way of making sure Patrick didn't get swirled up into his music and just end up hiding out when he didn't have work or an open mic. After being late to an open mic, and only doing a couple songs, Brendon did his usual guilt trip.

“I need a wing man.”

Patrick looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Are you even old enough for that?”  
Brendon pulled a heartwarming pout, words soft, “Paaatrick. I haven't gotten laid in forever. You obviously haven't either. Why don't we just go out with the guys and I promise you we won't do anything stupid and we can let the night take us?”

Considering Patrick's late night fantasies had been surrounded by the idea of what could have happened if he accepted Pete's offer, it was extremely tempting. He wasn't the biggest advocate for one night stands, but his skin was hot and itching at the idea of someone's mouth- anyone's mouth.

B noticed the hesitation. “Frank is talking to Gerard about getting our names on the list of a very exclusive cluuuuub!” He sang softly, trying to sweeten his deal with all his might.

“You're going to drag me out anyways, aren't you?” That earned him a nod, and he huffed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine.”

That's how he ended up wandering into a club wearing the tightest pair of jeans he owned with a clear idea of how drunk he wanted to get. Brendon had roped Frank and a few others along, somehow managing to get people like Beckett and Ryan and Spencer on the list, despite being under twenty one. He loved his friends.

It didn't take all too many beers to have that warm buzz around him. He was happier, more relaxed, an arm slung around Spencer as they spoke about everything that was deep and introspective while talking about absolutely nothing at all.

Then he noticed Pete.

Pete was sat at the bar, obviously buzzed to a particular degree since he mirrored Patrick, arm wrapped around the shoulders of Gabe Saporta. Which was funny, considering Gabe was several heads taller than Pete, and was hunched next to him, sharing laughs and cheers of drinks.

His drunk brain had a hard time trying to determine the fact that no, it wasn't a good idea to go over there. But that didn't stop him from excusing himself from Spencer and walking over to the bar, grabbing himself another drink, mere people away from the dark haired man that had been haunting him. And it was obvious Pete noticed him too, because suddenly Gabe was gone and Patrick was getting offered a drink from the bar tender from the man down the bar.

He knew it was his last chance, but a lot of drinks led to a lot of mistakes, and he took the drink, slipping over next to Pete. He had to lean in to speak to him, Pete wearing a grin. “Fancy seeing you around these parts. Are you even old enough to be here?” It was with a teasing tone.

Patrick took a long sip of his beer, tapping the rim of the bottle against Pete's nose. “You don't seem too bothered offering alcohol to under aged individuals.”

They were merely breaths apart. He could feel the gentle puffs of air coming from between Pete's parted lips tickling at his nose. They were staring like the entire club was empty for the moment, and Patrick was melting on the inside. The liquid confidence kept him relaxed, simply meeting Pete's gaze.

“Dance with me, pretty boy?” Patrick made sure to enunciate every single syllable, dragging them out, trying to prove to Pete he wasn't a complete drunken mess. To be fair, he wasn't. He was just a little wasted.

He assumed that was why everything was a blur. One moment he was laughing as Pete mumbled insults about those around them, then a particular dirty song flicking on, and their hips grinding in the filthiest way in the middle of a _fucking club._

He also supposed that led to them clambering into the back of a cab, giggling out various incoherent jokes that only made sense at that level of inebriation.

Unfortunately for Patrick, that's where the memory ended, until he woke up the next morning, squinting and confused. First off, it was way too bright in the stupid room. Second off, he clearly wasn't alone, as there was a warm chest behind him and a tattooed arms slung over his torso. Lastly, this wasn't his bed. The room was far too nice to be his place. It dawned on him like cold water on a warm day.

He had slept with Pete. The dull ache in his hips, and well, in other places too, proved that. He wanted to melt, he wanted to cease existing at that very moment so he wouldn't have to deal with one stupid fucking mistake.

Patrick was not one to hit it and quit it. One night stands happened, of course, but he was a novice at clambering out of bed in the morning before the other woke up. Usually he let the other person do that, or have a pleasant and domestic morning. Neither was happening with Pete, considering this was his home.

And he wasn't making it easier. Every time Patrick moved to get out of his grip, he'd mumble and treat him like a teddy bear. If it weren't for the fact he was utterly horrified of facing Pete, he'd actually find it pretty cute, but that was neither here nor there. He finally managed to slip out of his iron clad grip and out of Pete’s apartment.

 

Patrick was seriously dreading the night he'd see Pete next. He luckily didn't have the audacity to show up to another open mic, and when Brendon asked about him or what happened, all he got in return was a blank stare. But Patrick worked at the venue they frequented in Chicago, so he was screwed to eventually see the emo haired, eye lined gentleman eventually. Except he didn't.

Instead, the night Fall Out Boy had to play, a man with short black hair and a blank face walked in, carrying his bass, looking like hell. Patrick had to glare down at his work so he wouldn't stare. He had to remember that this guy probably didn't give a shit. And by probably, he met definitely. He was a big famous dude who didn't give a shit about some stupid ex-musician trying to scrape by with a job in a venue. The ridiculous flirting was for sex, and that’s all. He had gotten what he wanted. It was over now.

He sneakily watched as they set up, trying to notice if Pete noticed him. If he even gave the slightest shit. He was talking to Joe, speaking with his hands, not seeming as enthusiastic as he usually did. Patrick shifted uncomfortably as he watched him walk past, a hand running through that shortened hair, not noticing the man watching in the shadows.

“Hey,” Joe scared the absolute crap out of him, and he jumped a bit, eyes wide. Joe smirked. “Hey there, dude. It's been a while. How are you?”

He blinked a few times, looking in between where Pete had gone and Joe, a little confused. “Um. I'm good. How are you guys?”

Joe shrugged. “Y'know. We've been better.”

Patrick felt as if he was missing out on something. Like there was something extremely obvious he was missing out on. When he gave Joe a questioning expression, he just shook his head. “It's nothing. I'll see you around, dude.” He nudged his shoulder, and then walked off to do whatever it was Joe Trohman did before shows.

Patrick was walking before he could even think about it, walking to the green room. Just as he expected, Pete was there, but he was angrily speaking at someone. There was no other way to describe it, as it couldn't be called a conversation.

“Don't you get it? You're acting like this is all fucking fine and dandy but it isn't. How fucking _dare_ you. I know you haven't exactly been so gracious about this shit, the fact that we're fucking getting played on the radio, but Joe and Me and Andy have wanted this since we were fourteen and stupid as fuck. Andy gave up his scholarships for this shit. Joe had to get his GED. And now what the fuck are you doing?” Patrick was going to walk away, since this sounded totally personal and he shouldn't have been listening, but then he heard another voice finally stopping Pete's monologue.

“Fuck off, Wentz.”

Ed walked out of the green room, shoving Patrick out of the way. That just meant Patrick was in full view of Pete, who didn't seem happy. Patrick should have just walked away. He should have apologized and walked away, but instead he slowly crept into the green room, Pete's eyes on him the entire time.

“Um. Hi.” He said simply, eyes trying to read Pete's expression.

“Hey. How much did you hear of that?” He sounded a little nervous, his hands gently picking at the non-existent lint on his dark jeans.

Patrick shrugged slightly. “Not... not a lot, really. Don't worry, I'm not going to run off and tell people you guys are having a lovers spat.”

Pete's lips quirked slightly. Patrick marked that as a mini-victory. “You won't have to. Tonight's our last show.” That completely took him off guard.

“Wait, last show?” His brows raised to the ceiling.

Pete nodded. “We haven't been good for a while. I'm sure you've noticed, but Ed has a bit of a problem being a functioning human being. And don't get me wrong, I'm not exactly the healthiest, smartest individual myself, but now he's on a tirade of arrogance claiming he doesn't need us or want us. Which I'd be fine with it if meant we weren't the ones being screwed over. He has a deal. We don't.” He paused, looking at Patrick a bit more now, less focused on the things going on in his brain. “Sorry, you really didn't have to know that.”

Patrick shrugged. “You're better off without him. He was a waste of space.”

Pete looked a little flattered by that, but he still spoke sadly. “The thing is, we're just a couple of guys who can play instruments. We're “easily replaced”. It's bullshit. This label is bullshit.” He took a sip of his water, and leaned back, huffing.

He stared at the couch Pete was sitting on, wanting to set it in flames. He didn't want to think about the fact Pete had blown someone on this very couch. The image was still there, fresh, despite of how many months it had been. It just reminded him of a night he couldn’t remember. He quickly distracted it with, “You never called me back.”

Pete's head snapped up, looking a little sheepish.  “You didn't seem to want me to call you back. Doesn’t help you slipped out the morning after…” He had a point.

Patrick sighed, giving up on glaring at that damn couch. He had shit he had to be doing, but he walked over, settling down next to Pete. Without any warning he glued himself to Patrick's side. He didn't get much of a choice in the matter. “Does this mean you wanted me to call you back?” Pete sounded smug.

“I don't want to be a headline. I don't wanna be known as your gay streak. I don't want to go through the trouble of dealing with people and their comments and speculation for a fling that lasts a few weeks and ends up falling out for some stupid god damn reason. Why'd you cut your hair?” Patrick wasn't good at this type of stuff, and moving the conversation from his insecurities that had brewed for the few months of space was totally a good idea in his mind. Pete looked a little hurt, but there was a glint of understanding in his eyes.

“Listen, Patrick...”

Patrick liked the way his lips formed around his name, caressing it with care, as if it was some sort of secret.

“Tabloids or blogs or even actual news outlets aren't exactly the best place to get to know a person. Half the time, they're completely off. The other fifty percent, they're sensationalizing the truth. Yeah, I'm not the best at this kinda stuff, but I want to get to know you. You seem to be pretty awesome, and your talent blew me away.”

Patrick was having another one of those silent, gaping fish moments. Either Pete was really, really fucking good at acting, or he was being genuine, and he wasn't exactly sure which frightened him more. “That wasn’t the only thing that blew me aw-“

Patrick quickly cut him off, “So your hair?” The dark haired man fell into a fit of laughter, grinning wildly.

“As for the hair,” Pete said, eyes teasing Patrick for the silence, “Mark Hoppus cut it off at my request.”

Patrick laughed at that. He wasn't exactly sure why, but one minute they were sitting there, serious, and the next had Patrick keeled over, arm around his stomach and Pete laughing with him, sneaking an arm around his shoulder. They were like that, laughing at absolutely everything and nothing, until Andy walked in, giving them both a long stare, a bit of a grin creeping onto his features.    

“Pete, c'mon, soundcheck. Boy later.”

That seemed to bring Pete back to reality, remembering where he was and that this was his last show. He sighed lightly, squeezing Patrick close for a minute. He got up. “Does this mean we can talk later?” Pete seemed a little nervous, glancing back. Patrick nodded, and that sent a beautiful grin slipping across the man's features.

 

_Pete Wentz reflects on 10 years of Patrick Stump as a Fall Out Boy._

I met him here, at this very venue. I was instantly head over heels. [he laughs.] It took him some time- he wasn't having any of the best-shit-that-graced-the-Earth persona I was going through. But I also heard him sing here with us for the first time and.. It was just right. [he pauses, grinning to himself] I knew then, he was was what we needed, in more ways than one. Even with Ed in the band. He never made sense to any of us. We didn't want something long term with him. It was an accident that we got signed.

Where is he? God if I know. He’s probably living off royalties somewhere. I haven’t spoken to him in years. I’d like to keep it that way. He wasn’t good. Toxic. He liked living the rock star life without even being a rock star.

Patrick? Patrick isn’t a thing like him. He’s our glue. He kept us from falling apart. He kept me from falling apart. [he shrugs] He was the missing piece.

 

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on tumblr, @ asoulpunk


End file.
